You Can't Always Get What You Want
by tyrsibs
Summary: In the aftermath of Dean's cure, is there anything that can bring the brothers back to each other? Sam might have something that can make a start. (After Fan Fiction, I wonder if there will be another of these written, but here's my meager attempt at an amulet/MoC fic!) My first fiction in too long, so honest, kind criticism is very welcome.


When the knock sounded on his door, Dean bolted upright a little too fast, pulling away from the headboard and swinging his legs to the floor. "Yeah-," he said.

He counted a beat, two beats, before Sam entered. As his gigantic little brother stared down at him, Dean saw the now almost rote checklist in his gaze as it began again: hands empty, check. Rolled sleeves, far enough down to hide the Mark on his arm, check. Weary, slightly bloodshot eyes, still one-hundred percent green, check.

Dean cleared his throat. "So, did you find the cooler yet?"

"Yeah. Yeah—it was in the garage, like you thought. So, if you're good to go—" Sam's gaze slipped to the desk by the wall, and he moved that way, another step, two steps, away from the bed. Dean watched in silence as Sam began gathering the remains of last night's cholesterol extravaganza, brown paper wrappers, cup and straw disappearing neatly into the oversize go bag, until his attention caught on a piece of paper, or something, concealed in his brother's sling. A half inch of white corner protruded from the gap between cloth and arm. Not a paper, he realized.

"What's in the box, Sam?"

Sam froze for a moment before dropping the last wrapper into the bag. He turned again, meeting Dean's eyes briefly before reaching into his sling with his good hand and drawing out a think square box. He tapped it on the thumb of his wounded arm, once, twice, before crossing the room and holding it out to Dean.

Dean tried on a smirk. "What'd, you get me a 'thanks for not bashing my head in' present?"

Sam let out a huff of air. "You want to know what it is, take it."

Dean took the box from the outstretched hand and opened the lid. His breath caught a moment when he saw what was inside. The black cord, the polished bronze face he'd never thought to see again. Gingerly, gently, he touched the cheek of the horned cow god, the amulet he had thrown away years ago. "Sammy-"

"Yes, I kept it, alright? Fished it out of that fucking wastebasket-Bobby held on to it for a while for me, he must've stuck it in one of those storage units of his. After, when Jodi brought us his books, his other things, well, there it was."

Sam waved that memory away with a sweep of his hand. "I started carrying it around, when—you know-. For a while, when you were gone, I thought I could use it in a tracking spell—or maybe, I could use it to, to—"

"Summon me?"

"Yeah, I suppose. Either way it didn't work. The thing's got some kind of power, thought, and I thought—"

Sam ran his hand through his mop of hair, glancing away and then back Dean, who still stared down into the box. "You don't have to wear it, if you don't want to. You know, just say the word—I'm going to archive it, though, if you don't want it, so, speak now, I guess."

"Good idea. Leave it for the next Man of Letters to figure out. Bet you've got the index card all typed out and ready to go, huh?"

Sam's brow furrowed more deeply in irritation, or maybe concern, and Dean relented. "How about I take care of it for a while? Promise I'll set it in its perfect spot when the time comes."

At that, Sam's mouth quirked into a small grin that appeared and disintegrated with lightning speed. "Yeah, okay. Well, the beer's in the fridge and the cooler's half full of ice, so—"

"I'm almost ready. Be there in a sec."

His brother nodded, turned towards the door.

"Sam?"

"Don't mention it." The door closed softly behind Sam's back.

Dean gazed down at the bronze amulet. He wasn't ready to pull the cord over his head, of that much he was sure. But the urge to pick it up, feel its weight, proved strong, and he plucked the cord out of the box, bringing the cow god's face close to his own. Not ready.

Maybe, though, he could wear it in another way.

He pulled his shirt cuff up, over the brand on his forearm, and on to the middle of his bicep. The fingers of his left hand, entwined in the cord, brushed over the Mark as he did so, and he grimaced at the zing of achy pleasure the touch brought on.

The cord wrapped once, twice, around his upper arm. Dean finished with a simple knot, pulling the amulet down through the cord loop. Not too tight—tight enough to hold it steady. The face now dangled down inside of his arm a few inches above the Mark. His own little mojo tourniquet.

The grimace turned up into a bitter half smile. He felt the Mark's protest against this new intruder, a bone-deep itch settling in.

He might not be able to leave the amulet on for long-but the cord would hold.

The thin, black cord was strong.


End file.
